


And It's Hatred at First Sight

by functiondys



Category: In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 04:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12498696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/functiondys/pseuds/functiondys
Summary: In which Jamie may be a tad jealous, probably needs a hug and is working on his bloody issues, alright?





	And It's Hatred at First Sight

They're walking the new boy round, Malcolm and Baldy and Loverboy. Jamie catches sight of the wee fucker and it's hatred at first sight.

The smarmy little shit drips with sycophantic praise like the unctous little cunt that he is and eyes Malcolm up like he's a prime fucking piece of ribeye. 

Which of course he fucking is but he's Jamie's fucking slab of thick prime well-aged beef. He is not on the plate for this tiny pricked little public school boy in a suit.

Malcolm is smiling. 

The wee inbred cunt is drooling all over him Malcolm is fucking smiling. The rage in his fucking gut is enough that he nearly misses it when Baldy's gob start flapping. 

"Tarquin, meet James Mcdonald. He works for Malcolm over in communications."

Tarquin?

"James," smarms Taaarqwhin. "Pleasure to meet you."

Jamie managed not to laugh in his face purely from the distraction of wanting to punch him repeatedly in the face.

Tarquin holds out his hand.

It's a fucking insult and Jamie knows it, like the wee cunt wants him to play nice when they both know what he's after. Like Jamie wants to touch that sunbed toasted cock fondling appendage when it probably spent half the morning shoved up it's owners arse and the other half trying to get up Malc's.

"I've heard a lot about you," he said, weakly trying to prompt a response.

Oh Jamie is about to give him a response alright. Jamie however, unlike some, is a fucking reasonable cunt. Jamie knows how to behave in civilised fucking society, even when faced with some floppy haired, single celled fuckwit after what is fucking his.

Therefore he doesnae stab fucking Tarquin through his smary inbred face with the nearest object he can force into his eyeball. Which just for the sake of thoroughness happens to be your standard office pencil or some fancy glass shaded lamp depending on which arm he goes for.

There are eyes on him now, eyes asking why he isn't sticking out his hand in turn. Tarquin looks to Malcolm uncertainly but Malcolm's eyes are where they should be. Malcolm's eyes are fixed on Jamie like he's the centre of the fucking earth.

And aye, they're boring 'what the fuck are you doing you mongoloid cunt weasel ' into the side of his head but who gives a fuck about that? He's the one they're on, not the noncy little poxbridge sputum on front of him.

"Well say hello then James," encourages Pompous McBaldytwat. "Surely you've that particular greeting up in the wilderness."

Jamie, the fucking reasonable cunt here, keeps his hands in his pockets and smiles. From the way fucking Tahhhrquin's mouth gapes, Malc's eyes narrows and Ollie looks like he's about to piss himself he'd got it perfectly wrong.

Julius clears his throat awkwardly, looking slightly concerned for the little prick's life expectancy or possibly the continued whiteness of his pressed fancy shirt.

Tarquin takes his hand back. Jamie shows a few more teeth in pleasure and suddenly everyone decides it's time to move Tarquin the fuck on.

All except for Malcolm who stays behind with Jamie. Jamie wriggles a little in excitement cause Malc might be smiling emptily as he watches the small group leave but in a moment the whole force of Malcolm's attention is gonna be focused on him.

The door swings shut and Jamie's shoved back against the wall, Malcolm's hand pressing against his chest and snarls.

"What the fuck was that?"

Jamie's body twitches in excitement. They could have less fucking clothes on but he'd take it.

"Fuck's your problem?" he replies shoving Malcolm back because fuck is Jamie someone to be pushed about. 

Malc moves back in but not too close, his hands to himself cause for all his fury and inside-out machievellian alpha bastard posturing there's not a single braincell in that massive fucking brain of Malc's that thinks it's a good plan to escalate violence with Jamie.

"The fuck's wrong with you today?"

It's curiosity more than anger and that nearly feels like being dismissed. He's Jamie fucking Mcdonald and that is not the level of emotional reaction he gets out of Malcolm Tucker.

He's struck by a pulse of fury cause that feels more like a betrayal than fucking anything from today and he lashes out, one open hand to each side of the chest - cause Jamie's brain cell's don't give a fuck what's a good idea or not - and shoves. 

Malc goes sprawling backwards, landing on his bony arse and a forearm. Jamie's assaulted with the instinct to lash out and kick the fucker while he's down but a flash of neurons later and a burst of nausea punches him in the balls for even thinking about doing it to Malc.

Jamie snarls.

Malc look likes his brain has fucking gliched, his jaw jams open in shock and Jamie's body's flung himself with fury through the double doors and hauled him away by the scruff of his neck as far away from Malc as possible.

The rest of the day is a shouty ill tempered blur.

Right up until he storms his way home where he throws himself into the couch and acknowledges that there's a teeny tiny bit of a possibility that he might have overreacted to the whole fucking thing. 

Normally he'd've gone straight to pub but that was the young impulsive Jamie. New Jamie, mature modern Jamie deals with it better than that. Sensible Jamie gets Malcolm's most expensive, unopened whisky and downs a couple of fingers then orders a shit ton of curry and takes a couple beers out the fridge.

He polishes off his own, picks at Malcolm's cause of course he does and puts some shite on the telly.

"Oi," someone hits him in the arm.

Jamie jolts and the world is dark, the flickering lights of the telly and the electric orange of the streetlights outside are the only thing to cast light. They make Malc look like something out of a fucking science fiction nightmare, all shadows and lines and as gaunt as hell.

"Fuck," Jamie yelped leaping into the air like a fucking cat that'd been shot in the arse with a nail gun.

Malcolm doesn't look impressed.

"Time's it?"

"Back of ten."

That's late even for him. They might not manage nine to five but they'd been up at five fucking am this morning, being in at ten wasn't unheard of but that was sure as hell not a fucking good day.

He rubbed his eye with a fist, "Someone fuck up?"

"Someone always fucks up."

"I ate your poppadoms," Jamie said groggily.

Malcolm snorted.

There was the sound of the kettle boiling. Tea, most likely. Milk but no sugar, darker than pine boards but lighter than a ned's fake tan. It's a comfort thing more than it's anything, warm in the belly, oddly neutral in the mouth. 

Jamie makes it for him sometimes, when he makes that face like his insides have been removed with an ice cream scoop or his eyes rim red but dry and he point blank refuses to acknowledge it.

Pain isn't weakeness to Malcolm, sadness isn't something to be surgically removed from a soul and backfilled with anger and rage but it's sure as hell something that no one else gets to see. Even Jamie, cause it turns out that's a habit that you can't break. 

Some defences you don't take down because they don't go back up easy. Some defences you can keep up just by the skin of it's teeth but when it comes down it'll let flood a whole world of shit that'll take years to clear up. Jamie knows that without doubt, he knows it inside. So he doesn't push, he let's Malcolm keep his defences up and doesn't demand to be left inside. He's there to headbutt fuckers away not bring it down himself.

Malcolm returns, he's in sweats and a ratty jumper that Jamie's labelled his: for fucks sake I need affection but go about it wrong and I'll rip your balls off with my fingernails and not even have the good grace to juggle with them for shits and giggles.

It's just a cup of tea in his hands.

"You no eating something?"

Malcolm's nose twitches, it's not disgust but it's close to it.

"Not hungry," he dismisses.

"Suit yourself."

Malcolm takes a mouthful of tea but it doesn't look liike it's making him any calmer.

"Got y' your weird wimpy flourescent yellow coconut thing with the fucking nuts in it."

"That what you ordered on the phone?"

"Nah," he rubbed the base of his nose. "Put a lot more curse words in it."

"Miracle we can still order there."

"Ah they're nice lads, one o' them's from your neck of the woods."

"Aye?"

"Aye, others are from down Birmingham or something."

"How'd you know all this?"

"Found the place pissed one night, blokes recognised, must've been my gorgeous fucking vowels ae?"

Malcolm gave a half smile and chuffed. "Aye that and your choice vocabulary."

"I am highly orally talanted."

"That's one way of putting it," said Malcolm. "Certainly better with your mouth than you are with your brain."

Jaimie rubbed his hand through his hair and shrugged his eyebrows, insult or compliment it was difficult to disagree with.

"Aye," he agreed dully.

Jamie lurches to his feet and stumbles away, it's impulsive that he leans down to kiss Malcolm on top of his head as he passes. And utters a heartfelt but matter of fact:

"Know I fucking love you, right?"

"Aye, daft cunt," he said without much feeling. 

Jamie pulled away to be caught by Malc's hand.

"Don't need to know now," the voice is quiet but intent. "But whatever that was about you're gonna need to tell me before we're alright about this, yeah?"

Jamie tried to walk away. Malcolm's hand tightened, enough to keep him in place then relaxed and released just as quickly.

"Hey," he says and twists to look into his face. "Can tell me anything you know that right?"

"Aye. M'off tae bed."

"Aye."

Jamie lies there in the dark, waiting for Malc to come join him cause he knows he won't sleep tonight until the fuckers lying next to him. He's not much a one for cuddling but he's every intention of holding the man tonight, for once not sure which one of them wants it more. 

Cause tonight Jamie fucking needs to, Jamie needs to hold the emaciated, ill tempered fucker close cause then maybe - just maybe if he holds on tight enough and prays fucking hard enough - maybe then he won't be taken away.

Malcolm settles. Malcolm even lets him curl up at his side which normally takes post-coital to wrangle. Jamie wonders if it's pity, if it's a run up to a break up and being tossed out Malc's bed for good. Not that he'd fucking let that happen but it'd fucking hurt if he tried.

"Y'want to fuck it out?" Malc offers.

Jamie snorts. "You're near fucking asleep already."

"So?"

"That desperate for me, are you?"

"Just tell me what you need y'daft sod."

"A good night's fucking sleep," he grumbles into the queer bugger's knobly rib cage.

Malcolm huffs and presses a brief kiss to Jamie's hair.

"Cunt," he mutters affectionately.

Jamie holds tight and closes his eyes and prays like a trench-footed conscript in the pissing rain. Fully aware of the odds against him and the sheer inconsequential nature of his own existence, muddy and terrified and begging for it all to be alright.


End file.
